


mors tyrannis

by poppywine



Series: Gift One Shots [1]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppywine/pseuds/poppywine
Summary: A look into how four very different men handle working under the same artist. A brief character study.
Relationships: Silas Cobb/Sander Cohen/Martin Finnegan/Kyle Fitzpatrick/Hector Rodriguez
Series: Gift One Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094234
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Kyle Fitzpatrick

**Author's Note:**

> A look into how four very different men handle working under the same artist. A brief character study.

_Outright murder,_ Fitzpatrick thinks, _would have been kinder._

When he’d first met Cohen years ago, he had been practically swooning, tripping over himself: the very picture of the starry-eyed greenhorn, wide eyed and skittish. The glamour of Rapture was more then enough to dazzle any man, gleaming gold beneath the waves like a newly-minted penny and Kyle fresh off the bathy, was firmly on his way to falling under its spell one day when a hand grabbed him well manicured save for flecks of dried paint under the nails. 

“Here he is,“ A voice was saying, rough and tinged with a faint accent. “It’s the man of the hour himself.“

Instinctively he moved to pull away from the stranger’s grasp, free hand working to pry the fingers loose from his sleeve. Though he’d been there less then a year the lesson of Rapture had made itself more than clear; you were your own responsibility, come hell or high water, and that more then extended to handling whatever rowdy shitbirds came your way. The words to tell this nobody off were still forming in his mouth when a third man approached them, shorter then both but reeking of arrogance, somehow stronger then the expensive cologne he wore. Then he spoke.

“Martin, I _hope_ you haven’t been terrorizing the poor boy. Honestly, I let you roam for a week and you’ve gone the way of the tribals.” 

“Sorry, sir.“ Without preamble the stranger released him and Kyle brushed himself off before his attention was turned to the newcomer. Any witty retort died a quick death in his throat when his brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing. The playwright, the musician, the artist, the man himself- Fitzpatrick’s greatest artistic inspiration in the flesh. 

Sander Cohen.

At nearly a half-foot shorter than either of them, Cohen was somehow still the center of the conversation, a spectacle in heeled dress shoes and ostentatious rogue. Speechless, Kyle watched Cohen skewer Martin with a sharp glare before turning to him, one brow quirked in a sympathetic smile. (At the time, he had interpreted the look Cohen had given him as clinical, an intellectual evaluation of his worthiness. In hindsight, he knew Cohen hadn’t been looking for that special something to foster in his latest disciple: instead, he’d been looking for the perfect mark. Cohen was on the hunt for just the right young man with a mixture of naïveté and enthusiasm, and the young Kyle swooning in his slacks was ripe for the picking.)

“And _you_ must be Fitzpatrick.“ An elegant hand was thrust at him, long pianist fingers twining with his own in a sensuous version of a handshake. While his name had never seemed the most romantic in Cohen’s mouth it became music, a language all its own. “You’ve become quite the talk of the town, haven’t you? I like that.” When Kyle opened his mouth to explain, perhaps ask how Cohen knew so much about him already, the maestro waved him off and pushed a fresh champagne flute into his hand, seamlessly swapping it out the empty glass. “Would you be interested in talking business with me and Finnegan here, young man?” 

* * *

Now, sweating gallons under the stage lights, the giddy joy of working under Cohen had long faded. The makeup Fitzpatrick was wearing was unpleasantly sticky to the point of nearly melting under the sizzling bulbs, and a vicious hangover gnawed on his brain courtesy of Cohen’s personal stash. Once upon a time he would have been delighted to be up on stage, prancing like a fool in all white for his idol, but now every step was yet another offense in a long line of humiliation. In his latest fit of “fancy” (fucking craziness, as Fitzpatrick called it privately) Cohen had dismissed the bulk of Fort Frolic’s dance troupe and even sent a few of the senior staff packing over a dispute regarding Fort security; a few dancers had gone missing, their absence seemingly ignore by management. Ever the cheapskate though, Cohen had refused to lower the number of shows daily or even scale back the performers needed, giving the pathetic excuse of “uncompromised artistic version” to justify his total inaction. Thus Fitzpatrick found himself mirroring the other ballet dancers around him, hating everyone and everything in his life that had led him to this point. Mercifully enough though the routine itself was child’s play and so his mind was left to wander as he spun and jerked with the other bodies on stage, the unwelcome comparison of fish in a barrel coming to mind. 

_This can’t keep happening._

The years under Cohen’s thumb had eroded his sense of purpose, of creativity and dignity- but here, wearing a hooker’s makeup and flailing wildly on stage to the fascination of entitled trust-funders, Fitzpatrick felt himself sliding to an inevitable conclusion. 

_I should kill him._

The idea wasn’t new in his mind, but the novelty had finally worn off and he seized on it with renewed vigor, heart leaping in time with the dancers choreographed pliés. It would be the perfect conclusion to Cohen’s own story- a sudden, dramatic burst of glory that would leave everyone talking years after the fact, immortalizing the old bastard in every sense. As he ruminated over the idea for the hundredth time, Fitzpatrick suddenly recalled the first time he’d ever thought so vitriolically about his idol.

It had been his first showing as a disciple under Cohen; after nearly three full years of studying, memorizing techniques and drafting concepts he was being allowed to create again. The concept of the exhibit was simple, yet brilliant, at least to him at the time. Sander had explained it as a ‘showing of ghosts’, a gallery where every piece would be anonymous and wholly unsigned, to better let the viewing audience form uninfluenced interpretations. Their opinions would be made only of what was imprinted onto the canvas by the artist, allowing for true critique. “Signatures influence the participants, dearest disciple, for better or worse. I want to challenge that school of thought with the brightest minds in Rapture behind me, meaning people like you.” Under these words Fitzpatrick had swelled with pride and turned to his canvas with renewed vigor, paint splattering with the motion. He’d left the studio that day exhausted, the kind of tired that comes with the pride of job well done and floated home on a cloud of contentment, Cohen’s voice echoing in his thoughts.   
When the gallery opened the next week he was the first in. The place smelled like heaven; carpet cleaner, polished wood and oil paints, all blended into one heady scent. He squeezed between patrons, shimmied behind crowds and then he was there, looking at his work lovingly hung between two wall sconce.

  
He wasn’t alone.

  
Squatting in the corner of the canvas like an enormous spider was Cohen’s signature. He stared at it unblinking until the lines began to blur, until his eyes burned, and when he could stand it no longer he turned and fled into the crowds.

* * *

“Why did you do it.“ 

  
If Cohen was surprised by Fitzpatrick’s unannounced return to the studio, he didn’t show it, calmly rotating his snifter of brandy before acknowledging his presence without turning from the massive window overlooking the ocean floor.   
“It’s in the contract, Fitzpatrick. Paragraph nine, section three. By default, every work produced by the artist is considered property and production of Sander Cohen Studios unless negotiated otherwise.“

  
In his memory, the glasses of champagne clinked. They sounded like laughter, and his stomach flipped at the blatant manipulation. “I was drunk!“

  
“Maybe. Maybe not.“ Taking a long sip, Cohen spun on his heels and gave him a look a pointed disdain, like he was an errant mutt who’d shit the rug. “You still signed it. Your… _redress_ is over there, if you’re **done** pitching a fit.“ 

  
Hands trembling with poorly-repressed rage and frustration Fitzpatrick snatched the check from the end table, fully prepared to shred the damn thing. He only stopped once he read the amount scribbled in the box; it was nearly double his rent. 

  
“I don’t understand. Why pay me if you’re just going to claim it? Why not fire me, for God’s sake?!”

  
“I need you. I need all of my disciples. Rapture runs on commerce, trade, branding, young Fitzpatrick! And I… am the brand.

Sander Cohen, the spirit of artistry in the city!” This last line was accompanied by a sweeping gesture that spilled brandy onto the studio floor in a wide arc, splattering against Cohen’s polished wingtips. Suddenly disinterested once more, he tossed himself into a chair and loosened his cummerbund, easing into the cushions and closing his eyes.

“I was wrong.“

Fitzpatrick’s voice was low and hoarse, rough with emotion. Confused by the statement, Cohen opened an eye and watched him warily, waiting for him to continue.

“I was wrong about you. You’re…“ His eyes took in the slack cheeks, the puffy eyes with the lashes clotted with mascara, the ruddy complexion hidden under layers of foundation so thick it had begun to split at the lips and clump with flop sweat. “You’re not some kind of visionary or genius. You’re just a dirty old man. A real crooked old bastard.” Cohen said nothing, but even from this distance Fitzpatrick could see the tension in his posture, knuckles whitening. “I should rip this money to pieces. Show you what I really think.”

“Fine,“ sniffed Cohen, taking a long pull of brandy. “Go ahead. But… Rapture is an awfully competitive place, Kyle-boy. You might not find other work if word of your little temper gets out.“

There was a long, terrible silence.

Just as quickly as he had come Fitzpatrick pocketed the check and left, humiliation a yoke around his neck.   
Pulling himself from his recollections, he felt himself dropping into révérence, somehow feeling at ease even as the makeup began to flake from his neck and shoulders. He could kill Cohen if he really wanted to.

_E_ _asy as pie._

When the house lights went up, Kyle Fitzpatrick’s smile was the brightest on stage. 


	2. Silas Cobb

The flats in Apollo Square looked nervous. 

They clustered together in irregular bunches against the greenish light of the ocean, jumbled against each other and cutting long silhouettes across the pavement as Silas Cobb trudged back to his flat. 

Even the shadows here felt grimy, a diluted grey that smeared over the people, himself included, as they all streamed home in resigned silence off the metro. Silas himself wasn’t faring much better; every noise from his fellow passengers seemed deliberately designed to agitate him, scraping at the inside of his skull like steel wool. Even the sounds of rustling fabric and the clicking of hard soles against stone tile threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to be free from the rabble, to sit in silence and lick his wounds. It was not an unfamiliar mood, just an unwelcome one; it spoke of another blow to his pride, yet another searing indignity from working for Sander Cohen. 

Sprinting the last few flights to his apartment he stuffed the key in the lock and shouldered the door open. The air that greeted him was unpleasantly still, made stagnant by days of absence, and with an irritated scoff he yanked on the pull chain of his register vent, letting the tepid air of Rapture’s  ventilation system fill his lungs. It was nowhere near the sanitized and lightly-perfumed  airflow of High Street, but to Silas the metallic undercurrent of the Square had come to taste of home. 

Kicking the door shut, he staggered over to the couch and threw himself across the cushions. The velvet camelback was too short for him as a matter of fact and always had been, but a combination of stubbornness and sentimentality had kept him from replacing it. Now though, the green cushions were a welcome respite from reality, worn with age to fit him perfectly. Before he could escape into unconsciousness the indignity of the day’s events gnawed at him again, pushing him to his feet. With naked desperation he made his way to the  kitchen cabinets and fumbled inside, stopping to withdraw a bottle. The merlot inside was expensive to the point of obscenity, but Hector was more than generous with his black-market connections when it came to his fellow disciples- Silas had gotten this particular bottle for pennies on the dollar, a fact which never stopped making all four of them laugh whenever they saw Cohen buying those same blends at full price. It ultimately meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, Cohen’s wealth being what it was, but nonetheless it offered a moment of fleeting satisfaction with which to counteract the daily humiliation. Flicking the screw cap off he threw himself backwards onto the couch before taking a long pull, not stopping until he had to draw breath. Emotional drinking never worked out well in the end, he was well aware- but still, resentment was a dry itch in the back of his throat, one he was going to drown. Today had been particularly degrading. Cohen had taken one look at his proposed score and literally sent it up in smoke, flames wisping from between his manicured nails as he crushed the offending piece in a fist. 

“Contrived.  _ Boring _ ,” He’d said flatly, watching the edges crisp and blacken. “You’ve done better.  _ Culpepper _ has done better. Try harder.” And with that he poured the ashes into Cobb’s still-waiting hand and turned away, cutting off the discussion as completely as a cleaver. Destruction of drafts wasn’t new in Cohen’s playbook- the man had once tossed an entire screenplay into a ventilation fan and made the entire creative team watch as it came back in pieces, white confetti. But the rub of this one had been in its accuracy: he  _ had _ been phoning it in, had been since the day started. But Sander tracked the production of his disciples like a farmer tracks the yield of milk from his cows; he knew the best they could give, and expected nothing less. The score, reduced to cinders in his hands, had been base at best.

Then there was the matter of the feeling in his chest when Sander said that- a sickening wave of disappointment settled in his stomach like lead, followed by an overwhelming rush of shame. Some needy, childish part of him wanted that approval, coveted those words of encouragement- and that was more upsetting then anything, to be made so keenly aware of just how much of a hold Cohen still had over him. Restless with frustration, he strode to his home office and flung the door open, throwing himself into the drafting chair hard enough to make the legs rock dangerously.

Turning his Philco to maximum volume, he uncapped an errant fountain pen and started writing, heedless of the way his broad strokes poked though the margins of the pages. Already he was preparing to break night; he would finish this. Even if it took him all night. 

Taking another gulp from the wine bottle Cobb grit his teeth as he scrawled, loose curls swinging in his face. 

He’d show Cohen, that sanctimonious bastard, that  _ snake. _

He had to. 


End file.
